Different
by Philomela Kellswater
Summary: She never told him of this, of course. He could not understand. It made her feel ashamed, that while he loved her enough to die for her, she loved a sensation enough to be willing to sacrifice his life to get it.


Author's Note: I don't own anything you recognise, as always. Sorry about the English, as always, but it's still not my native language, and this time I tried _really_ hard not to make any mistakes. Look, I really tried to make this story as good as possible, I spent about and hour writing it and half an hour editing, if not more (well, I'm as my grandmother's, and there's not much to do around here…), which made my favourite Faber-Castell pencil several centimetres shorter, and still, this story is _crap_. I'm a master (or mistress) of crap stories. I'm not really sure about the rating, but since I took away most of the things I believed to be a little "dirty", I don't think I'll have to rate it R. Anyway, here it is:

"_Take, if you want a slice, if you want a piece, if it feels alright"_

_- Soundgarden, "My Wave" from album Superunknown _

**Different**

It wasn't enough. It was never enough. She always wanted more. She always needed more. She craved more. But she knew he couldn't give her that. It would kill him, no doubt. Often, in the confusing dizziness that always followed when she took what he offered, she realised she could kill for that feeling. She could kill him, drain him dry, let him die. This frightened her more than anything. This was the reason that made her hesitate to take from him. He offered it freely, he said he enjoyed it as much as she did, but she knew it wasn't true. He might think it was that way, but it wasn't. It never had been, and never would be. He didn't enjoy it to the point where he was ready to let her die in order to get his pleasure. But she did. Oh, she really did. She would let him die, if it meant that she could go on drinking that sweet, crimson blood of his, which so easily ran down her throat.

Sure, he took from her, or took her, but she didn't care much about it. She only felt true rapture, when she sank her teeth into his wrist, or preferably his throat, waited for his groan in pain and pleasure alike, and then drank his blood. Her offered her it every night, but she rarely accepted his generous offer. She relied on the synthetic kind as much as she could, but sometimes, the lust for the real thing took over. Her eyes went icy blue, almost white, and she could her his heart beating and the blood running, whispering, through his veins. Then she buried her face at his shoulder, inhaling his scent, before taking what she so madly desired. He always smelled of some sort of metal (or maybe it was just the iron in his blood), and of lycan and sunlight. After a while, she turned her head and licked his jugular, in an uncharacteristic playful way, which she rarely showed. And then she sank her teeth into his soft skin, waited for his response, and started drinking. Sometimes she distantly heard him call out her name, in pain or pleasure she couldn't decide. And she didn't care about it, it didn't matter to her at all whether she hurt him or not. The blood-lust had taken over completely.  
She could always sense it, when she had to stop, when she would risk to drink too much, she didn't need him to softly push her away, she knew by instinct. And then the feeling came over her. That she could risk everything, risk killing the one man she'd truly loved, so that she could go on drinking his blood.

She never told him of this, of course. He could not understand. It made her feel ashamed, that while he loved her enough to die for her, she loved a sensation enough to be willing to sacrifice his life to get it.

He could never understand. To him, she was his mate (seen from a _very_ lycan perspective), and therefor he would do anything for her. It made her feel ashamed, but relieved, that he trusted her so much, while she was such a treacherous viper, who was after his blood, and not his love. Sure, she loved him, but not enough. Her thoughts made her feel so ashamed. Her shame haunted her when she lay in his arms afterwards. But she wasn't ashamed enough not to do it.

So they continued to use each other's bodies to satisfy their different kinds of lust, while the sun burned the ground outside the windows.

**The end.**


End file.
